Because You Left
by Mally O'Jack
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John pushes Sherlock down a sand dune.


I came across the heartwood metaphor (see below), and that got me thinking about the long-term implications of Sherlock's return, once those intense emotions faded and the humdrum life of Baker Street started up again. How would Sherlock cope with being back? What about John? How do you get over something so life-changing?

(Note: This story sits in the 'Signal Fires' and 'Home' versions of events. The characters refer obliquely to details in these stories, but they are not required reading for this one. Thanks to Shi-Toyu for the comment about sand and soldiers).

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this.

Because You Left

by Mally O'Jack

"I keep thinking of trees. You can strip the leaves of a strong tree and it will live. Cut its bark with many names and it will grow its skin over them again. You can even take from the heartwood and it will live. But if you take of the heartwood again and again and again, there will come a time when even the strongest tree must die. They die from the inside out." _- Stephen King_

"The opposite of love is not hate, but indifference." _- Elie Wiesel_

* * *

**John**

In those early days, when John thought back to Sherlock's return, the only words he could find that could even come close to describing it were religious words from his schoolboy days in a Church of England primary school. Words such as _blessing_

("Watson?"

"The bestowal of a divine gift, Miss")

and _grace_

("Undeserved favour, Miss")

and _miracle_

("A rare occurrence", the schoolteacher informed them gravely, "beyond the realms of hope.")

Yes, the act of Sherlock returning from the dead was indeed sacred, perhaps even verging on biblical.

And yet he felt royally pissed off about the whole thing.

* * *

**Sherlock**

Of course he knew John was angry with him. He wasn't an idiot. John was so incredibly easy to read. He even knew why John was angry with him.

It was because he had left.

The act had been absolutely necessary; there was no question about that. But still, it had wounded John. John, who already carried round so many wounds now carried this one, and perhaps it was too much. He was still the same old John, unfailingly kind, but the essence of their relationship had somehow shifted. A subtle pulling away. The heartwood eroding...

There was no solution for it, as far as he could see. And that unsettled him, made him nervous, and so he preferred not to dwell on it.

He'd practically had to beg John to come with him today, to a lonely, windswept beach in Wales, to examine the remains of a campfire at the behest of a client. He had asked John to come with him, not with any particular design or motive in mind. Just, that he wanted to be with his friend.

He had not expected John to push him down a sand dune.

* * *

**Day twenty **

**(Seventeen days before John pushes Sherlock down a sand dune)**

John came home from clinic to find his pillow missing. His first instinct was to look in Sherlock's room, but some perverse sense of honour made him refrain. Even though Sherlock invaded his privacy all the time. Even though Sherlock probably had stolen his pillow in the first place.

He was in the process of assembling dinner when he heard the front door go. Sherlock, returning from Barts with fresh specimens that Molly had promised him.

"Have you seen my pillow?" John said as Sherlock glided into the kitchen.

"No." Sherlock opened the fridge and started putting away the fleshy-looking tupperware boxes.

"It's gone walkabout."

"Has it?"

"Yes. It has."

"How odd."

He put down the spatula. "Okay, see, that was me being polite. Give me back my pillow."

Sherlock closed the fridge door. "You can have one of mine if you like."

"I don't want your pillow. I want my one. It fits my head really well.. " He trailed off, aware of how lame he sounded. He turned his attention back to to the saucepan, giving the contents a stir. "What could you possibly want with it anyway?"

Sherlock sniffed, ignoring the question, and peered over his shoulder to look at the hob. "Really, John, it's been three years. I would've thought you'd have learnt to cook something other than beans by now."

"You're right, you're exactly right. Because the obvious response to watching my best friend throw himself off a tall building is to suddenly start taking cookery lessons."

Sherlock hummed, non-committal. "Let's just order a take-way."

"No."

"Why not?"

He gestured at the saucepan. "Because it will go to waste. Starving children and all that. It's the principle of the thing."

"So we have to suffer through a miserable dinner of baked beans because of your principles?"

"It's not just baked beans." He nudged the oven with his foot. "They're to go with the jacket potatoes."

"You are aware the oven isn't on?"

"Oh, what?" He bent to look. The oven was stone-cold. "This is your fault. You distracted me by nicking off with my bloody pillow." His shoulders dropped in defeat. "Fine. Let's order a take-away."

And it was later, when they were finishing up the last of the Chinese, that Sherlock said deliberately, "I took your pillow because it smells of you. I imagine it will help me sleep better."

Spring roll poised half-way to his mouth, he stared at Sherlock. "Oh." For lack of anything better to say, he said "Oh," again. And then - "You can have my duvet too if you like."

Sherlock smiled at him then, genuine affection evident. "Just the pillow should suffice."

Surprise, pleasure, embarrassment. And underneath it all was the wound, aching.

_You left. _

* * *

**Day twenty-eight**

**(Nine days before John pushes Sherlock down a sand dune)**

They were at a crime scene when a police van pulled up. The doors opened and a pack of police dogs leapt out with their handlers. John glanced up as Lestrade went over to talk to them, and then he turned his attention back to the pattern of blood on the ground. He was aware of Sherlock coming to crouch down next to him, pressing up against his shoulder and knee.

He was about to say something about personal space and boundaries when he realised that Sherlock was breathing rather rapidly.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied in a low voice. He looked up briefly, beyond John, and ducked his head again.

"What - " John looked over and saw the sniffer dogs barking, waiting to be let off their leads. Then he looked back at Sherlock. Sherlock was curling in on himself, almost using John as a shield.

"They won't hurt you - "

"I know," Sherlock shot back.

"Is it all dogs?"

Sherlock nodded once, tightly.

"Since -" He was going to say, 'since you left'. At that moment the dogs were set free, and they scattered, yelping. One dog bounded up to where they were kneeling and sniffed round their ankles. Sherlock grabbed hold of John's arm and squeezed it with surprising strength until the dog was called away by its handler.

"You okay?" John said again quietly, when the dog had gone.

Sherlock nodded.

"We'll just wait here for a bit."

Sherlock still held John's arm in an iron grip, and John pretended to examine the blood stains until Sherlock got himself under control again. Then Sherlock released his arm, but not before John gave his hand a tight squeeze. To show that he was sorry. That he understood.

Sherlock responded by a slight dip of his head.

And still, underneath it all, was the wound.

_You left. _

* * *

**Day thirty-four**

**(Three days before John pushes Sherlock down a sand dune)**

This was the day that he came across Sherlock's lists. He was hoovering the lounge when he accidentally knocked over the music stand. The sheet music went flying, and as he knelt to gather up the scattered sheets he found other papers hidden amongst them. Papers with Sherlock's handwriting, a tiny scrawl.

It was a list. Or, lists, to be exact. Lists of the entire contents of the kitchen, of the lounge, of the bathroom. Of Sherlock's room. Of John's room. Right down to the number of forks in the kitchen drawer, the tiles in the bathroom and the paperclips in John's desk.

Perhaps this was Sherlock's way of grounding himself, anchoring himself back to Baker Street, although it must have taken him days to catalogue everything. John put the sheets back as carefully as possible and did not mention them to Sherlock.

Every day, every week, there were these small things, these revelations. Some were heart-wrenching, others pitiful, that moved him and that made him want to cry. And Sherlock had done it all for him, to protect him, to keep him safe.

And yet the wound grew worse each day. When he woke and when he slept and when he looked at Sherlock. A physical ache. All he could think was -

_You left. _

_You left me_.

Eventually, he could bear it no longer. He decided to let actions speak louder than words, and so on day thirty-seven, at a lonely, windswept beach in Wales, he pushed Sherlock down a sand dune.

* * *

**Day thirty-seven**

He couldn't help but laugh as Sherlock tumbled down the sandy slope, rolling over and over. He looked like a great huge bat, his black coat flapping about him.

At the bottom of the dune, slowly, Sherlock got to his feet. Picked up his magnifying glass and looked at it carefully. "You've broken it."

"Oh dear. Do you know what this is?" John rubbed his thumb and index finger together. "It's the smallest violin in the world, and it's playing just for you."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "John - "

"Just shove it, Sherlock, all right? I'm not interested." He flexed and clenched his fists. "If you come up here, I'll push you down again. I was trained to fight on sand. Your baritsu bartitsu mumbo jumbo's got nothing on me."

"Do you know how childish you're being?"

"You're one to talk."

Sherlock gazed up at him and then deliberately started making his way up the slope.

"I mean it," he said, "if you come up here you'll be sorry. I'm not joking."

"John," said Sherlock, his tone calm, and measured, "I haven't finished examining the fire yet. A woman's alibi depends on it -"

"Oh don't give me that. Like you care anyway."

Sherlock was halfway up the sand dune now.

"I mean it, Sherlock. Fair warning."

Sherlock continued to trudge up, every step sinking into the sand.

"Fine. Have it your way."

And then he launched himself at Sherlock.

Sherlock twisted slightly to the left, away from John, and John would have sailed into thin air had he not caught Sherlock with his leg, pulling him off-balance so that they both fell together down the slope.

John, unhindered by a heavy coat, was able to right himself first, and he turned on Sherlock, sprawling on top of him and grinding his face into the sand.

"For pity's sake!" Sherlock said, his voice strained as he tried to break free, "what's wrong with you?"

"You know what!" - and then he grunted as Sherlock drove an elbow into his side. His grip loosened and Sherlock was able to roll so that now Sherlock was on top of him, sitting on his back wrenching his arm up and behind him.

"You're being ridiculous," he heard Sherlock say in his ear.

"Am I?" He jerked his head back to headbutt Sherlock. He heard a yelp of pain, and he twisted, staggering back, trying to find purchase in the sand.

Sherlock was hunched over, cradling his nose. "That _hurt_!"

"It serves you right," John roared.

"Why?"

"Because you should have told me!"

"I did tell you. It's hardly my fault you weren't clever enough to figure out what I was really saying -"

With a cry of rage he leapt up and collared Sherlock in a headlock. "Before that! Before you went up there. You could have told me." He was half on Sherlock's back, and Sherlock slipped and together they fell again, rolling even further down the dune. "You told Molly Hooper and then you told Mycroft but you didn't tell me."

"Get off!" Sherlock sank his teeth into John's hand.

John let go instantly, slipping down the slope and cradling his hand. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, no biting."

"So there are rules, now, are there?" Sherlock had an unholy gleam in his eye. He was higher up now, looming over John.

He shook his hand out, trying to quell the pain. "I could've helped you," he shouted against the wind. "I could have gone with you."

"I've already explained to you why you couldn't. And besides, it's not like I wanted to disappear for three years."

"Well it's your own stupid fault for getting mixed up with bloody Moriarty in the first place."

Sherlock tilted his head. "Technically, it's your fault for blogging about me. You attracted his attention."

"So it's my fault?" John started climbing the slope again, and Sherlock backed away.

"Yes. I told you not to blog about me and yet you insisted on doing so."

"Well maybe you shouldn't have asked me to flat share with you in the first place. We'd only just met! Who– who even does that?"

"You could've said no."

"Yes. I could have. Then you would've gone with the cabbie and taken that pill and I wouldn't have been there to stop you and you would have died and it would have served you bloody well right."

"Except I wouldn't have died because I know I picked the right pill."

John glared at him. "Really."

"Yes, really."

"Really," John said again. Now they were both at the top of the sand dune again, level with each other. "Mr. _"I'm Sherlock Holmes, I'm the best consulting detective in the world, I'm always right, all the time, look at me showing off with my solving crimes and_ -"

"So you'd rather I didn't solve so many crimes?"

"Yes."

They started to circle each other.

"I'm curious, John. Which crimes should I not have solved? Should I have let Henry Knight go insane? Should I have let that little boy blow up? Is that what you want? To let the 'bad guys' win?"

"Yes!" A beat. "No." His throat hurt from all the shouting.

Sherlock was looking at him with an amused expression, and that wound John up even more. He grabbed handfuls of sand and threw it at Sherlock. "I didn't" - pelt - "want you" - pelt - "to go."

Sherlock threw a load of sand back at him. "Well I" - pelt - " didn't want"- pelt - "to go either."

They glared at each other, both covered in sand, both a little out of breath. Then John turned away and sat down heavily, looking at the sea. After a moment Sherlock sat down next to him.

They didn't say anything for a bit.

Eventually Sherlock was the first to break the silence. "You ripped my coat."

"Good," John said heatedly. And then a pause. "Sorry."

"Yes."

"I'm not talking about your coat."

"I know...I'm sorry too."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"It's not your fault though." He glanced sideways at Sherlock. "It never was." He was surprised to find that he meant it.

"I know. I'm still sorry though."

"Apology accepted."

Seagulls flew overhead, calling to one another. The tide was coming in.

Reluctantly John looked at the remains of the fire. "I suppose we should get back to..." he gestured. "The woman's alibi and all that."

Sherlock shrugged. "In a bit. There's no rush, is there?"

"No. No, I suppose there isn't."

* * *

When John thought back to Sherlock's return, the words he used to describe it were words he had learnt as a school boy in a Church of England primary school. Words such as _blessing_, and _grace_, and _miracle._

Now he had another word. A word to make the wound heal, in time.

_Forgiveness._


End file.
